


Kiss From A Rose

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Reality TV, Sort Of, The Bachelor au nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-18 15:46:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16121681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Stiles and Peter are competing for the affections of one Lydia Martin, the latest Bachelorette. The flirting between them's just for fun, so they don't go mad from boredom cooped up in that house for three months, right?Right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maladicta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maladicta/gifts).



> I have no idea, okay? I mean I barely even watch this show!  
> But I *might* have watched a few episodes of the latest series, and I *might have stumbled across [this article about contestants in Vietnam leaving the show together](https://www.nbcnews.com/feature/nbc-out/contestants-bachelor-vietnam-reject-male-suitor-each-other-n912981) , and of course we all remember [When the Australian Bachelor contestants fell in love](https://www.refinery29.com/2016/10/127564/the-bachelor-australia-contestants-fall-in-love) , and, well.  
> There is no excuse for this - it's pure self indulgence. I would hang my head in shame but apparently I have none....

 

The glare from the lights was harsh, but Stiles was used to it by now. For three months, they’d been assembling in the ballroom for the Rose Ceremony, and  each time he’d made it through – he and Lydia had proven to get on well, she’d laughed at his jokes, appreciated his intelligence, and they’d traded a few ~~lot of~~   lazy kisses for the camera that he’d enjoyed immensely. Somehow, he’d made the final four.

It was amazing to him that he was on the show at all, to be honest. Scott was going to be _so_ damn smug when Stiles finally got out of here. And to be fair, this _was_ all Scott’s idea. Stiles was only there because Scott knew someone who knew someone, and he somehow got the inside info that this year’s Bachelorette was going to be Lydia Martin, Fields Medal winner, math genius, and poster girl for women in science, who Stiles had been crushing on forever.

Scott nagged incessantly until Stiles gave in and made an audition tape, just so Scott would leave him alone. He deliberately made it as ridiculous as he could - he filmed himself cleaning his pool, singing loudly to the Frozen soundtrack while home alone, and talking in his car about how he was struggling with his third novel, and how being a writer is a lonely job. (There might have been a little road rage in there as well because _someone_ didn’t edit it out- thanks, Danny.)

The producers loved it, contacting Stiles almost immediately, and after a month of gruelling interviews and psych evaluations, he’d been accepted onto the show. And really, he’d thought he was there as the quirky guy who leaves after two or three episodes, a little comic relief for the viewers. But instead, it was all single dates, one on one chats, kissing (and _oh god the_ _kissing_ , Lydia has _such_ a lovely mouth), and week after week, he was handed a rose as men who looked like they were a shoo in were dismissed as _boring_ , _predictable_ , _a dime a dozen._ (Lydia turned out to be as merciless as she was gorgeous – Stiles didn’t like to think too hard about why he found that such a turn-on.)

He knew exactly why he was still here, if he was honest, but none of the four remaining contestants talked about the fact that every contestant had gone back to their room in the first three weeks of the show and found Lydia sprawled across their bed. In Stiles’s case, he’d stood there open mouthed in shock until Lydia had rolled her eyes, slid off the bed and stalked towards him, wearing nothing but the sheerest of lace robes that hid exactly nothing, (He’d noted dimly that she was a natural redhead.) She’d grabbed him by his tie, pulled him close, and whispered in his ear. “I’ve bribed the cameraman. They won’t be around, and we have the night to ourselves. Impress me, Stiles.”

Stiles blamed what came out of his mouth next on sheer nerves. Somehow his brain got stuck on the fact of Lydia’s genius and managed to overlook her near-nakedness. “Um, did you want to discuss calculus?”

She’d tossed her hair over her shoulder and huffed. “Yes, Stiles. I’ve broken into your room in the middle of the night because I’m interested in your _maths skills_.” And then she’d steered him around, pushed him onto the bed, and undone her robe.

Stiles finally caught on, and made up for his earlier faux pas many, many times, in many different positions. The oral fixation that everyone had teased him about finally, finally, paid off, and he’d received a rose like clockwork every week since. Lydia had flat out told him that she had her top four already picked based in her ‘personal performance evaluations’ and that he was one of them. But now there were only four of them, and Stiles wondered which of them was going home tonight. Peter caught his eye and winked, and Stiles smiled back, before turning his attention to the remaining contestants, mentally evaluating them.

* * *

 

Chris Argent - older than the rest of them but still undeniably attractive. He’s something of an enigma – not flashy like Jackson, not entertaining like Stiles, not suave like Peter, but still, there’s a certain frisson between him and Lydia. Stiles knows he’s not the only one who’s noticed the way Lydia gives a tiny shudder every time he speaks in those whiskey-rough tones. They’ve all seen the way her eyes linger on his long, lean body when she watches as he does laps in the pool for an hour every morning, wearing a speedo that leaves nothing to the imagination.

Chris won the last season of Survivor, so he has money. He lost his wife in an animal attack five years ago and says he wants to find love and move on. Stiles can’t figure him out  - he somehow manages to straddle the line between endearing and dangerous. Stiles would sleep with him in a hot second, but first he’d check under the pillow for a hunting knife.

* * *

 

Jackson Whittemore’s a pretty boy, pure and simple. He’s a B grade actor who’s played the villain once too often and now he’s been typecast. He confessed to Stiles that he’s really here to play up his caring, sensitive side, in the hope of catching some producer’s eye. As a result, he’s spent the season letting Lydia lead him around by the nose, fawning after her and playing the concerned, sensitive type. If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d almost say Jax cared. He has a feeling Jackson’s going home tonight, though. Lydia’s been frowning and sighing at him a lot this week, and Stiles suspects she’s bored with him.

* * *

 

 

That leaves Peter. And Peter could take this, honestly. If Stiles had to pick, that’s who he’d choose. The man’s devilishly handsome, an absolute charmer, and a doctor to boot. He’s younger than Chris, in good shape physically, and has a wicked, wicked sense of humor. Stiles spends hours during the day with him, joking and arguing and flirting.

They didn’t get on at first. Peter tended toward arrogance, and Stiles had been quick to shoot him down every chance he got. Peter had just smirked at him, and sniped right back. Their witty back and forth threatened to give some of the other contestants whiplash, and Stiles is sure it probably made great viewing. The thing was, Stiles enjoyed their mental sparring matches, and Peter must have too, because suddenly he wasn’t making cutting remarks _at_ Stiles, so much as murmuring them in his ear and directing them at the other contestants.

They’d really started to warm to each other after there was a near drowning incident on a group date and Peter saved Stiles’s life - literally. Really, someone as clumsy as Stiles should never have been allowed to go anywhere _near_ an activity like white water rafting – him going over the side was inevitable. Smacking his head against a large rock, not so much. It had been Chris Argent who’d leapt out of the boat, dragged his unconscious body to the surface, and held him afloat while Peter tugged him back onto the raft. But Peter was the one who’d gotten him breathing again, administering mouth to mouth while the rest of the contestants were still trying to figure out exactly what had happened.

While Stiles recovered, wrapped in a space blanket, shivering and in shock, the words, “You could have used tongue, I wouldn’t have minded,” fell out of his mouth with absolutely no warning.

 As soon as he realized what he’d just said, Stiles had clapped his hands over his mouth in horror, but Peter had just raised an eyebrow and smirked. “I’ll bear that in mind for next time you nearly drown and give yourself concussion, sweetheart.”

After that, something changed fundamentally between them. They were both in agreement that Lydia was an absolute treasure and any man would be lucky to have her, but the animosity between them was gone, like a vapor in the breeze. Instead, they formed a solid alliance. Team events? Peter and Stiles. Talking and flirting in the corner on cocktail nights? Peter and Stiles.  Filmed snickering together the night the twins both showed up in identical outfits and Lydia couldn’t be bothered telling them apart and took to calling them Thing one and Thing two? Peter and Stiles.

Sometimes, Chris joined their group. The older man encouraged their flirting, telling Stiles, ”Makes you look good to Lydia – shows her you’re not insecure in your sexuality.” He cast an assessing eye up and down Stiles. “I mean, you and Peter swing both ways, right?”

“Um, I do . I don’t think Peter does, though.”

Chris laughed loudly. “You think? Lemme tell you something, kid. Lydia’s not the only one sitting poolside in the mornings watching me. And I’m not the only one Peter’s looking at, either.” And with that he walked off, leaving Stiles to consider the terrible, wonderful, possibility that maybe, when Peter was flirting, he meant it, and the realization that if he _did_ mean it, Stiles wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t mind at all.

 

* * *

 

 Once Chris pointed it out to him, Stiles wondered how he could have missed it. There was the way Peter placed a hand on Stiles’s lower back whenever he got the chance, the way he leaned _just_ too close when he whispered in his ear. Stiles couldn’t help himself – he started to encourage Peter. So sue him, the guy was hot, and Stiles was under no illusion that he had any chance of winning this, so he figured he may as well have some fun.  

He volunteered to put sunscreen on Peter’s back, massaging it into his shoulders and then running his fingers through the short hair at the nape of Peter’s neck, making the older man shiver. He started throwing an arm over Peter’s shoulder when they sat on the couch together. He turned the most innocent of comments into an innuendo, so much so that the producers told him to tone it down, this was meant to be family friendly. And somehow, suddenly they weren’t kidding anymore, and there was a heat between them, a thread of tension and want that it was impossible to deny.

It was when they were down to the last eight that Peter cornered Stiles in the kitchen early one morning and stole a kiss. He pulled back afterwards, raising an eyebrow in silent query. Stiles ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, chasing the shadow of Peter’s presence there, before grabbing Peter by the front of his shirt and dragging him into a proper kiss, one than didn’t end until they heard voices approaching.

Peter murmured, “Come to my room, tonight, Chris said the cameras will be down between eleven and four,” and Stiles nodded eagerly, not even questioning that Chris would know when the cameras were down.  He leaned in, stealing one last peck before they parted. When Chris and Jackson came into the kitchen they found Stiles starting up the coffee machine and Peter chopping fruit, just like any other morning.

Stiles waited till just before midnight before he slipped along the hallway to Peter’s room, and he spent an immensely satisfying hour getting to tangle his fingers in Peter’s thick locks as they made out, kissing each other hungrily. Peter slipped a hand down the front of Stiles’s sleep pants and played with his cock until he was begging for more, and then jacked him off quickly. Once he’d recovered, Stiles ducked his head under the blankets and made Peter fall apart in record time, feeling slightly smug when Peter felt the need to apologise for just how quickly he’d come. Stiles slipped back to his own room a short while later, and fell into such a deeply relaxed sleep that he slept through the alarm and had to scramble to get ready for the day’s activities. Peter saw him yawning later, and just smirked at him.

It became a game – Stiles waiting till the smallest of the wee small hours, when it was so late it was almost early, and then slipping into Peter’s room, only to emerge an hour or two later, flushed and grinning. He was fairly certain that Peter must by in Lydia’s top four – if he wasn’t Stiles didn’t know why not. He could do things with his hands and fingers that made Stiles want to weep with joy, and the way he dragged the scruff of his goatee down Stiles’s throat never failed to make him shudder.

Not that Stiles was any slouch – Peter would fuck his mouth, muttering filth about sinful boys and their cock sucking lips, and Stiles would just hum and take him deeper until Peter would go wild from it.  They didn’t go any further than hand jobs and blow jobs for the time being – they never knew what the next day would bring, and as Stiles told Peter, like hell was he going mountain bike riding the day after being fucked.

They thought they were flying under the radar, right up until Chris came into the living room one afternoon and after looking at Stiles for a moment, hooked a finger through his belt loop and dragged him into the bathroom. Stiles had no choice but to follow, his heart thundering in his chest as he wondered what the hell was going on. But Chris ducked down and dug in a toiletries bag under the sink to come out with what looked like some sort of wax crayon. He tilted Stiles’s head to the side with one strong hand on his jaw and proceeded to apply the stuff to his skin. He then rubbed around the area a little with his fingertip before giving a satisfied nod. “Concealer. Tell Hale to get rid of the beard or be more careful - you’ve got stubble burn.”  

Stiles swallowed instinctively, suddenly feeling a lump in his throat the size of a small country. “What gave us away?”

Chris grinned widely, transforming his features from those of a serial killer into someone Stiles suddenly wanted to  have babies with, lack of a uterus be damned. “Let’s just say, you’re not the only one playing round after dark. The hallways aren’t as empty as you think, and you’re not exactly stealthy, baby.” He pressed the concealer into Stiles’s hand. “Keep it, kid. You’ll need it more than me. That skin must bruise like a damn peach.”

For a wonder, the producers didn’t seem inclined to put a stop to the nocturnal wanderings. Stiles had asked one of the cameramen one day when he saw the man deliberately not filming Peter and Stiles making out in the hall closet. The guy had shrugged. “You think this is something new? Three months is a long time. People hook up all the time – it’s just normally with the star, not the other contestants.”

Stiles was having a wonderful time. He spent his days dating and flirting with Lydia, who continued to be breathtaking, and his nights getting fingered and blown by Peter, who was breathtaking in a completely different way. He found himself more and more attracted to Peter, found it harder and harder to remember who, exactly he was meant to be impressing. By the time they got to the night before the Rose Ceremony to determine the final three, Stiles was smitten, and it wasn’t with Lydia.

He was lying in Peter’s bed, Peter curled close around him as they both caught their breath in between trading kisses. “Your damned mouth should be illegal, sweetheart,” Peter growled against Stiles’s ear.

“I bet you say that to all the contestants,” Stiles quipped back.

He was stunned to see something like hurt flit across Peter’s face, before the other man rolled over away from him. “I think you should go,” Peter said stiffly. Stiles placed an arm on Peter’s shoulder, only to have it shrugged off. “ _I said_ , you should go. Before the _other contestants_ get here.” Peter’s tone was sharp, and Stiles flinched. Shit. He didn’t know Peter would be so offended.

“Peter, I was joking –“

“Good _night_ , Stiles.” Peter pulled the blankets up so that only the top of his head was poking out. Stiles sighed, and started to climb out of bed, but then he stopped short. He was damned if he was going to let what could be their last night together end on a sour note. He leaned over and shoved at Peter’s arm. “Hey. Don’t get snippy on me over a joke, man.“ He continued to shove at Peter while singsonging, “ _Peeeteer, Peeeeeeteeer,_ _paging Doctor Hale_ , _Peeeeeteeeer_ ,” rocking him and poking at him until the other man rolled to face him with a scowl.

“Stop it, Stiles. You’re not funny,” Peter snapped.

Stiles leaned down and softly kissed his forehead. “Yeah. I know. And that was a stupid joke. I’m sorry. But you have to know that I was kidding. I mean, let’s face it, apart from Lydia, who else here is even worth your time?”

Peter continued to scowl at him for all of five seconds before he  deflated.“Fair,” he muttered. “Although…”

“Chris,” they said, at the exact same moment.

“I have a feeling he and Lydia will be very happy together,” Peter said, smiling at the thought.

“Really? You think he’ll beat pretty boy?”

Peter sat up in bed and nodded. “Absolutely. He’s been playing the long game. If you look closely, you’ll see Lydia watching him. And she looks _hungry_.”  Stiles realized that Peter was right - Lydia looked at Chris with pure, unadulterated lust. And at that moment he realized something else. He didn’t mind – not really.  He had feelings for Lydia, she was gorgeous and clever and slightly terrifying in an incredibly sexy way. But that’s not who he saw himself leaving with.

 

* * *

 

 

The host droned on about _only three roses , one of you must leave,_ and Stiles ignored him. They stopped and started the filming four times to get the lighting right, and Stiles didn’t care. He just kept glancing over at Peter, drinking in the sight of him in a tux. He knew that after this they could always call each other once the show aired, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Peter would still want to spend time with him when they weren’t trapped together.

A tiny sigh escaped him as filming stopped yet again. Peter sidled over, and Stiles noted he looked a little nervous. Peter opened his mouth to say something and stopped, not once but twice. “Peter? What is it?” Stiles asked, because this wasn’t like Peter at all.

Peter just shook his head. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter, honestly.” Stiles shrugged, and put it down to nerves. Soon enough they were ready to start shooting again, and Stiles obediently schooled his face into the “hopeful but nervous” expression that he’d perfected.  He watched as Lydia picked up the first rose, and he took a deep breath. His guess was that it would be either him or Jackson going home today, and it was the first time he didn’t know for sure he’d be getting chosen.

“Chris.”  Lydia stepped forwards and held the rose out, and Chris gave her that breathtaking smile of his as he accepted it.

One down.

“Jackson.”  Jackson’s face lit up as he took his rose, and it hit Stiles that either Peter or he would be leaving today.

There was a short break in filming, during which Chris leaned down and said something in Lydia’s ear, and whatever it was, she blushed absolutely scarlet. They had to wait to resume filming until she was a normal color, for continuity’s sake.

Finally, they were ready to go.

Lydia stood there holding the rose, biting her bottom lip. Stiles knew that when this played out in living rooms, they’d have added dramatic music, but in the here and now, it was just Lydia standing there in awkward, loaded silence. Finally, at a signal from the cameraman, she stepped forward.

“Peter.”

Stiles stood there, stunned. Even though he knew it was a possibility, the reality was much harsher than anything he’d imagined. He wasn’t going to get the girl, and he wasn’t going to get Peter either.

Except.

Except Peter was staring at the rose, and at Lydia, and he wasn’t taking it. “Take the damn thing,“ the cameraman murmured, and that seemed to shake Peter out of his reverie.

“I can’t accept.”  The room went deathly silent at that.  Stiles could see the producer signalling madly at the cameraman to keep filming.  Peter stepped forward and kissed Lydia on the cheek. “Lydia, you’re a magnificent woman and you’ll make somebody very happy, but it won’t be me. Now, do you mind if I borrow this?” He plucked the rose from her fingers, and turned and walked towards Stiles. He stopped in front of him and held the flower out. “Stiles, will  you accept this rose?”

Stiles stared, frozen in shock. What the hell was Peter doing? Was he bowing out so Stiles could continue? He could hear the producer gleefully telling the cameraman to _get it all, for god’s sake, this is gold,_ but he didn’t care. “What are you doing?”

Peter smiled at him, soft and sweet and hopeful. “Isn’t it obvious? I came on this show to find love. And I did, but not with Lydia. I want you. Come home with me tonight?”

Oh. _Oh_. Stiles could hear the blood thundering in his ears as he stared at Peter, dizzy with shock. Peter wasn’t stepping aside. He was walking out. And he wanted Stiles to join him.

Stiles took a deep, calming breath, pushing aside all thoughts of continuity, filming times, angry producers, and ratings. He extended a hand and stroked the flower petals softly, closing his eyes and letting himself just _feel._ Really, there was no other answer he could give.

“Yes Peter, I’ll accept this rose.” Peter’s smile widened. He leaned in for a kiss and Stiles pulled him close as their lips and teeth clashed, the kiss messy and desperate. Stiles felt a lightness in his chest, and as the kiss carried on he realized it was sheer happiness.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”  Stiles pulled away to see Lydia stamping her feet like a toddler. “You can’t just run away together! What about me? I’m the one here to find love!”

She looked for all the world like a petulant child, and he had a brief moment of sympathy for her before Peter murmured in his ear, “She’ll forgive us when she sees the ratings, trust me.”  And then he went back to kissing Stiles, the pair of them ignoring the uproar around them as Lydia demanded that they bring another contestant back to make up the numbers, as Jackson protested that it would lower his chances, and as Chris strode over to Lydia and lifted her bodily, perching her on the edge of a nearby table and settling between the v of her legs.

“Lemme make you feel better, baby,” Chris murmured, before kissing her soft and slow and deep, and Stiles pulled away from Peter just in time to see Lydia looking up at Chris with an expression something like worship on her face. “Really, you think anyone can compete with me, baby girl?” Chris asked in that deep voice of his, and Stiles saw the way she bit her lip as she shook her head and reflected that Peter was right, Chris was always going to win this.

 

* * *

 

 There’s fallout, of course here is. But it’s not as bad as Stiles expected, mainly because, apart from anything else, it’s _fantastic_ television. Basically he and Peter are rapped over the knuckles and told to keep their mouths shut until after the series goes to air in six months’ time. The production company plans to spend the build up to the season by hinting at _a shocking development,_ and they’re confident the ratings will be massive.

They're right. The ratings, when the season finally airs, are through the roof.

Jackson is flooded with offers of romantic leads, which was what he wanted all along.  Stiles’s novels start selling at roughly double the rate they were before. Peter has to enforce a no paparazzi/ no new patients rule at his practice.

Lydia doesn’t bring another contestant back - there’s just the decidedly anti-climactic season finale, which features a lot of footage of Jackson gazing forlornly into the distance, and lots of shots of Lydia and Chris making eyes at each other. It ends with Chris sweeping Lydia off her feet, lifting her up bridal style and carrying her tiny frame out the front door of the mansion, highlighting the difference in their sizes.

The network also screens what’s billed as a “Special Bachelor Event – Unexpected Love.” It’s advertised as an _In depth look into the developing relationship between Peter and Stiles,_ but what it actually is, is an hour and a half of cobbled together footage of all the times they flirted together in the house, padded with replays of Peter giving Stiles mouth to mouth, plus an interview with Lydia and Chris. Peter and Stiles don’t take part in the special - they’re on their honeymoon when it’s being filmed.

When the interviewer challenges Chris that he encouraged and enabled the relationship between Peter and Stiles to get rid of his competition, he just smiles widely. “Well, yeah. Those two were made for each other, I just nudged things along a little. I mean, why wouldn’t I play dirty when the prize was this little sweetheart?” It would sound condescending, if he wasn’t gazing at Lydia with such deep affection when he said it.  He brings her hand up to his lips and kisses her knuckles softly, subtly showcasing her wedding ring. They married two weeks after filming finished, and are blissfully happy.

The interviewer dares ask about the rumors that Peter and Stiles weren’t the only ones breaking the rules, that Chris and Lydia were sleeping together during filming. Lydia fixes him with a frosty look, and answers primly, “Christopher and I waited till marriage,” while Chris just sits there grinning.

When the interviewer expresses surprise, Chris chimes in with, ”We may have fooled around some, but I told my sweet girl right from the start- I wanted her to have something to look forward to. She tells me it was worth the wait. Right, Princess?” He nuzzles at Lydia’s ear.

Lydia blushes prettily under the attention. ”Definitely.”

“Son of a bitch! That’s how he won!” exclaims Peter when he watches it. Stiles just throws back his head and laughs, telling his husband not to be such a sore loser.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia thinks it's ridiculous that she's meant to choose someone based on stilted 'dates' where the cameras follow them, so Lydia decides to do what she’s always done, and make her own rules. It doesn’t take much of a bribe to get the cameras to the bedrooms disabled on specific nights, in order to allow Lydia to get to know her bachelors better, so to speak. Some of the contestants she dismisses out of hand as not worthy of her time, but there are a handful that she’s interested in. She makes her way into their bed, and issues them all with the same challenge – “Impress me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! In a shocking development, a wild second chapter appears, featuring Lydia and Chris Argent.

 

Lydia taps one delicate nail absently against her cheek as she surveys the eighteen men in front of her, and considers her choices. Why, she silently wonders, are so many of these boy cookie cutter copies of each other? And more to the point, why are so many of them _boys?_  She’d been quite specific in her requirements – intelligent, capable of holding a decent conversation, not intimidated by a successful woman, successful in their own right, and _older than her._

They’ve really taken her literally, she thinks. Some of these men are technically older than her, but by barely a year or two. There’s a set of identical twins, so she’ll give them points for novelty value, but Lydia knows she could happily throw at least half of the contestants out of the house without thinking twice. She holds back her sigh, and plasters a smile on her face as she enters cocktail hour, and attempts to find anyone who she can hold an interesting conversation with. The young guy with the odd name, (Steele? Styre? _Stiles_ , that was it), is chatting with the twins, who both have a blank expression on their face as he rambles about the history of male circumcision. Lydia smiles, and takes note. he appears to be clever, at least.

Chris, the long, lean, figure who she recognizes from Survivor, catches her eye and tips her a wink, but makes no move to approach her. Interesting – most of the men here are falling over themselves to get her attention. Just then, she feels a tap on her shoulder. She turns to find an attractive suave older man, perfectly groomed, extending a glass to her. She goes to refuse, holding up her champagne flute, but he leans in and murmurs, “Take it – it’s water. You’ll end up dehydrated if you only drink champagne under these hot lights. Trust me, I’m a doctor.” Lydia raises an eyebrow, but he just holds her gaze, smiling steadily. “I really am a doctor. Peter Hale.” He continues to hold out the water, and Lydia ends up taking the glass.

She didn’t know how thirsty she was until she’s drunk the whole thing and is licking her lips, chasing the last of the cool, refreshing moisture. “Thank you, Peter,” she says with a toss of her hair.

“You’re quite welcome, Miss Martin,” he purrs, and Lydia’s libido perks up at the sound of his voice. He's certainly fuckable. Maybe, she thinks, there might be some interesting men here after all.

 

* * *

 

 

Lydia thinks it's ridiculous that she's meant to choose someone based on stilted 'dates' where the cameras follow them, so in the end, Lydia decides to do what she’s always done, and make her own rules. It doesn’t take much of a bribe to get the cameras to the bedrooms disabled on specific nights, in order to allow Lydia to get to know her bachelors better, so to speak. Some of the contestants she dismisses out of hand as not worthy of her time, but there are a handful that she’s interested in. She makes her way into their bed, and issues them all with the same challenge – “Impress me.”

Some of them are predictably disappointing – a quick grope of her tit, two fingers sliding in and out of her until she’s barely wet, and then two minutes of jackrabbiting into her, only to collapse and fall asleep immediately afterwards. It’s nothing she wasn’t expecting, but still.Hardly the men of her dreams.

The first candidate who shows any promise at all is the actor, Jackson. He’s pretty, but more importantly, he’s _attentive._ He takes his time, makes a show of stripping for her, kisses her softly and asks her what she’d like. It turns out he takes direction _beautifully_. He has a nice, thick  cock, and knows how to use it. It’s several hours before Lydia leaves his rooms, because it turns out he has stamina as well.

He makes it onto her list.

 

Peter Hale doesn’t even blink at her presence in his bed. “Miss Martin,” he says, smiling. “I’m assuming you’re here for a medical emergency?”

Lydia puts on her most innocent face. “I feel so _empty_ , Doctor Hale. Can you help me?”

Peter’s smile turns predatory. “I certainly hope so. Why don’t we get you undressed and I’ll see what I can do?”

What he can do, it turns out, is _everything_. Peter’s studied the human body extensively, and he has no hesitation in using that knowledge to bring Lydia to completion again and again. As well as his knowledge he uses his hands, his mouth, and his impressive length. By the end of it, she’s begging him to stop, sensitive and shaking from  sheer exhaustion.

 _He_ makes it onto her list, too.

 

She not sure what she expects from Stiles, isn’t even sure why she’s here, except there’s _something_ about those hands. They look like hands that she wants to get to know better - intimately, even. What she _doesn’t_ expect when she asks him to impress her is for him to offer to discuss calculus. The look on his face as he realizes what she really means is priceless, but he recovers quickly, and proves that those hands definitely know what they’re doing. But more than the hands, it’s the mouth. After he’s licked her to her first climax, he confesses, “I, um, have something of an oral fixation.”

“Please, Stiles, fixate away,” she replies, breathless.

He does. He fucks her slow and gentle, mouth on her breasts, teasing and suckling, setting up a slow rhythm, taking his time, making sure she’s satisfied before he even thinks of coming himself. Lydia enjoys it so much, she demands that they do it all again.

He definitely makes the list.

 

When she props herself on Chris Argent’s bed, she won’t deny she’s excited. She been watching him in the mornings as he swims, has seen the barely contained bulge in his speedo, and she can’t help but think _If that’s what he’s like, soft, after being in cold water…_

She smiles her most seductive smile when he enters the room, fluttering her lashes. Chris raises an eyebrow at her, before finally saying, “You appear to have the wrong room, princess.” His voice does things to her, she won’t deny it. She can’t wait to hear it groaning out her name, deep and rough.

“Oh no, I’m exactly where I want to be,” she replies airily, sitting up and thrusting her breasts forward a little. Chris flicks another glance her way, and then…turns his back on her, stripping his shirt off casually as if she weren’t even there. She’s taken aback but does her best not to show it. “ I thought I’d give you a chance to impress me,” she says, her tone firm.

Chris continues to undress, not even turning around as he speaks. “See, if I do that, where’s the advantage for me?” His jeans hit the floor with a thunk, and she’s treated to the sight of long, muscled legs and an underwear clad ass. Finally he turns, arms folded. “I’m guessing you’re taking all your favorites to bed, princess, to see if you can pick a clear winner. And I gotta admit, I see your point. Who wants to marry someone they’ve got no chemistry with?”

He steps closer, and suddenly Lydia has the feeling she’s not in charge here anymore. She finds herself nodding. “Exactly,” she manages.

He’s reached the foot of the bed, and he climbs on it starts to crawl towards her, prowling, _hunting._ “But here’s the thing, baby girl. I already know we’ve got plenty of chemistry. I don’t feel I gotta prove it.”

Lydia finds herself scooting back towards the headboard as Chris advances on her. “If you aren’t going to sleep with me, then what are you doing?” she demands.

He grins, all teeth and intent. “I won’t put my dick in you, baby girl, but I’ll show you a good time. If I fuck you now, what have you got to look forward to when I win?” He’s close enough now that he can lean in and take the tie of her robe between his teeth, tugging lightly. The robe falls open, and he chuckles.

Lydia’s torn between confusion and lust right now – she blames that voice, honestly. “What makes you think you’ll win? If you don’t do as I say, I can send you home,” she threatens, because suddenly there’s nothing she wants more than his dick in her.

He tilts his head, as if considering what she’s said, before shrugging, “See princess, I don’t think you will. If you send me home, how will you ever find out what you’re missing?” He leans in and kisses her, effectively pinning her against the headboard as he explores her mouth. Lydia’s never been kissed like this in her life. She can taste traces of scotch on her tongue, feel stubble scraping across her face, and before she knows it she’s kissing back. Chris slips a hand inside her robe and starts to rub a thumb round her nipple, and a moan escapes her. Chris takes his hand away and sits back on his knees, grinning. “Sensitive little thing, aren’t you?”

“Shut up and kiss me some more,” Lydia demands, pulling him closer.

 

* * *

 

 

True to his word, Chris doesn’t fuck her. What he does, is tease her. Endlessly. He spends an hour just kissing up and down her body, whispering endearments, before finally burying his face between her thighs. He eats her out like it’s his life’s work and soon enough she’s trembling all over, anticipation building in her. She knows her body, knows that she’s going to come harder than she ever has before, but before she can, he pulls his mouth away. She lifts her head and gives him an incredulous stare, slipping her own hand between her legs. Chris grabs her wrist before she can finish herself off, though. “Uh uh uh,” he chides. “Didn’t I say I’d show you a good time? I’m not done, baby girl, so you can just be patient.”

Lydia makes a frustrated noise, but Chris just kisses the knuckles on the hand he’s holding. “Now, now, princess. Daddy’s gonna get you there, I promise. You just gotta let me take the lead.” Lydia’s breath hitches and her cunt _throbs_ when she hears the way Chris says _Daddy_. He sees her reaction, and hums. “You like being daddy’s girl? Want someone else to be in charge for a little while?” he croons. Lydia bites her lip. She _does_ , she does want that, even as her body cries out for him to touch her again. “Been watching you all week, baby. Always calling the shots, telling those other boys what to do. How about you let me take care of you for a change, huh?”

He leans back down and starts suckling lazily on her clit, making her whimper softly. It’s so good, but it’s not enough. She presses up into his mouth and tangles her hands in his hair, holding him in place. He sucks at her lazily, pressing his tongue inside her occasionally, keeping her on the edge, and she’d almost wonder if it was an accident, except that every so often he’ll lift his mouth away and look at her keenly, before nodding to himself.

Every time she’s close, he’ll back off a little and spend some time running his hands over the rest of her body, sucking at her nipples until they’re peaked and sensitive, tracing his fingers around her entrance and spreading the wetness there and never, ever sliding them inside. After almost half an hour of being brought to the edge and taken back down again, she cries out her frustration at the delicious torture, and he has the cheek to _laugh_. “It’s all right, baby. Beg for daddy, and I’ll let you come.”

“Please, daddy!” has left her mouth before she even thinks twice.

“That’s my good girl.” Chris slips two long fingers into her, massaging her from the inside, stretching her out and hitting her sweet spot, at the same time flicking over her clit with the tip of his tongue, and she squeals as her climax slams over her, sudden and overwhelming, making her shake and sob with the sheer intensity of it.

She knows right then that she won’t be sending him home anytime soon.

 

* * *

 

Once she’s caught her breath she offers to blow him, surprising herself -  he’s here to please _her_ , after all. But he shakes his head, saying, ”I told you baby,  you don’t get near this unless I’m the winner.” He indicates the obvious bulge of his erection, visible through his boxers.

“Well, can I see it at least? I’d like to know what I’m playing for,” she huffs out.

Chris nods approvingly. “ _Now_ you’re getting it. It's a game, princess.”

“And I’m the prize?” she asks archly, folding her arms across her chest.

Chris shakes his head. “No baby. I am.” He slips his underwear down and Lydia’s breath catches at the sight of what he’s offering. Chris is _hung_ , there’s no other word for it. Lydia thinks about how good that would feel inside her, imagines taking it in both hands, (and she _would_ need both hands, she knows it).  She reaches out instinctively, and Chris barely lets her touch him, just enough to feel the solid heat and the throb of his cock before he takes her hand away. “That’s all you get, princess. You want more, you know what to do.”

Lydia glowers at him. “Well at least kiss me again,” she demands.

“That I can do, sweetheart.” He kisses her soft and slow, and it makes her melt into his arms, the way his tongue coaxes her lips to part and slips inside, and way his hands wrap around her back and pull her close. When they finally part, Lydia feels distinctly off kilter, blinking as she comes back to the real world.

Chris nudges her softly. “Time for you to go, princess. I need my beauty sleep. I’m hoping to get a one on one date tomorrow, gotta look my best. I will be getting a date, right?”

Lydia nods dumbly. She’d told the production crew that she was going to choose the slightly less boring twin, but now?

She’ll tell them tomorrow that she’s changed her mind.

 

* * *

 

Chris is unfair and terrible, and Lydia hates him. She tells him this one night as he bites down on her breast, leaving the imprint of his teeth, making her squirm under him. He grins at her and continues to grind his length against her where he’s pinned her to the bed, before fingering her till she comes so hard she actually cries. “Tell me again how you hate me, baby girl,” he growls out against the crook of her neck, “Cause the way you’re wet for me tells me different.”

“Fine. I don’t hate you,” she huffs out. “But you’re still terrible.” Chris laughs softly, before diving between her legs to lick up the mess she’s made, which proves to be a futile exercise when she comes again from the touch of his tongue.

He never fucks her, never even _comes_ , for god’s sake, just comes to her room and drives her mad with want. He’s like a drug, and she’s hopelessly addicted. The scary part is, she really doesn't mind.

Chris tells her gleefully one evening that Peter and Stiles are having fun of their own, and she can hardly say she’s surprised – they’ve hardly been subtle about their attraction to each other. “That means that really, it’s just me and the Ken Doll left in the running. Who are you gonna choose, baby girl?”

They’re down to the final four now. Despite the fact she's falling for him, part of her still rebels against the way Chris is playing her. “Well Peter might win, yet. He’s quite fascinating, and better looking than you,” she says airily. Chris just nods, his face clearly stating he doesn’t believe her.  “I’m sending Stiles home, then Jackson. We’ll get better ratings if you and Peter fight it out. You’re complete opposites - it’ll make good viewing.”

“Mhmm. Believable,” He doesn’t really seem concerned about the thought of Lydia choosing someone else, and that irks her, somehow.

“You know, I really might choose Peter,” she challenges.

Chris snorts. “He’s pretty enough, but can he really satisfy you? Can he be your _Daddy_?” Lydia shivers at the word – she can’t help herself. Chris catches the reaction. “Didn’t think so.” He sounds so damn smug, Lydia thinks.

She pulls out of his arms and rolls over to really look at him. “Why do you want to win this so badly? Is it really just a game to you?”

Chris looks hurt, which surprises her. “Princess, I have a type, and it’s fiery redheads. I’m crazy in love with you.  I thought you felt the same?”

That pulls her up short. She thinks about it for a moment, and it hits her that she _does_ feel the same. Nobody challenges her like Chris, nobody holds her interest like he does. It infuriates her, the way he refuses to bend to her will, but she also craves it.  Chris sees through her facade, knows she just wants to be loved and cherished. That’s why she’s on this show in the first place. He sees, and he treats her like a goddess. His affection is obvious, in hindsight.

And when she thinks about how she feels? She’s forced to admit she  probably loves him, if she’s honest, but more than that, she _likes_ him. She looks over at him, and sees he’s watching her expectantly, waiting for a reply. “Baby?” he asks quietly, the only time she’s ever heard a note of uncertainty in his tone.

She pushes him onto his back and rolls on top of him, pinning him down and looking his straight in the eye. “You’ve enchanted me, somehow, I’m sure of it. You’re it for me.”

The smile he gives her is blinding. “You mean it, baby girl? You don’t just want my dick?”

She shakes her head. “Not just your dick. I mean I do want it, but I want the rest of you as well. I like all of you.”

Chris hums contentedly, still smiling, and rolls them so he’s on top of her, bracketing her with his body. “Gonna marry you, Lydia,” he murmurs in her ear. “Gonna finish this show, gonna marry the hell out of you, and then I’m gonna fuck you every day for a week, probably twice on Sunday. Want you so bad,” he confesses.

Lydia preens at the admission, and breathes out a quiet,” Yes please, Daddy.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lydia wishes she could just have this whole thing be over with and take her man and run, but she knows that’s not how ‘reality’ tv works. She has two more episodes to get through, where she’ll have to look down the camera and tell them that she has _deep feelings_ for both Peter and Chris, that she doesn’t know how she’ll ever choose. She’ll have to fake a distress she doesn’t feel, because she’s going home with Chris, and he’s going to marry the hell out of her, and then fuck her every day for a week, probably twice on Sunday. It occurs to her that the sex isn’t even what she’s looking forwards to most. It’s waking up with those strong arms wrapped around her.  It’s coming home from work to find Chris there with a smile, holding out a glass of wine. It’s getting to see Chris relaxed and comfy in their own home, without cameras, without fanfare, just an unfairly attractive man who calls her his princess, and makes her feel like one.

Although she _is_ looking forwards to the sex.

They’re filming the rose ceremony, and they’ve taken a break to reset the lighting and take the shine off Lydia’s nose. Chris already has his rose, as does Jackson. Chris gives her a tiny, private smile. Lydia smiles back, and he wanders over, leaning down to breathe in her ear. “Daddy thinks you look so pretty tonight. If I was to rip that dress off you, bend you over that table and fuck you right now, do you think they’d keep filming?”

Lydia jerks suddenly at the words, shocking and filthy and all kinds of wrong, and she _wants_. It takes all her self-control not to stand up, pin Chris against a wall, and wrestle him out of his suit right then. She can feel the heat flooding her face, knows she must be bright red, and hisses, “Stop it!” Chris just laughs softly in her ear, and walks away.

The cameraman groans, and points accusingly at Chris. “We have to wait, now – I can’t film her like that. Look at her!”

“Sorry,” Chris says, obviously completely unrepentant.

Lydia has to breathe deeply and think about mathematical formulas in order to get herself together enough for them to continue. She still feels jittery, her mind trying to bring her visions of herself bent over the table, dress rucked up high, Chris behind her grunting as he fills her – “ Lydia! You’re blushing again!” the cameraman calls out.

Chris smirks at her, and she glares back. He really is infuriating. They end up bringing her a glass of water, and she closes her eyes and drinks it, taking slow, deep breaths. They add more powder to her face, adjust the lights a little, and tell her she’s good to go. “Just, whatever you were thinking about, don’t. Think of your grandma’s toenails if you have to, but keep it in check, okay? We want to go home some time tonight.”

 Lydia nods obediently, and makes a point of not looking at Chris. She eyes up Peter and Stiles, and wonders how they’ll cope with one of them going home. Then the cameras are rolling, and she’s standing there holding a single rose, waiting for just the right moment to take a deep breath and say the word.

“Peter.”

She sees Stiles’s crushed expression, but it’s not directed at her. Stiles is staring at Peter looking like his heart will break. And Peter? He’s not doing what he should _at all_. He’s staring at the rose as if she’s offering him poison. The cameraman nudges him along a little, and that’s when it all goes to hell. _Peter_ _turns her down_.

He takes the rose from her and offers it to Stiles, spouting declarations of love, asking Stiles to leave with him tonight, and Stiles accepts, and they’re kissing like they never want to part, and the cameras are suddenly focused on _them_. All Lydia can think is _how dare they?_ She had no intention of choosing Peter, but he doesn’t know that. And yet here he is, tossing her aside for some hack novelist. _On her show._ Really, it’s intolerable, and it makes her want to stamp her feet and scream. So she does. She lets herself throw an old-fashioned tantrum, swearing, demanding they bring someone back so they can finish the show properly, and it feels _good,_ to act so disgracefully - for all of three seconds.

Then it hits her, what she must look like, screeching like a banshee and acting like a brat. A wave of shame washes over her, and she feels her face flush. She wonders what her mother would say if she could see her now – she taught her better than this. She stands there, angry  and embarrassed in the knowledge that she’s just made a fool of herself. She fights the urge to cry, tears of frustration threatening.

Chris notices her distress, because of course he does. He strides over and picks her up like she weighs nothing, perching her ass on the edge of the table. She parts her legs to let him crowd in closer, feels the seams of her dress stretch and rip, and doesn’t even care. Chris murmurs comforting words to her, running his hands down her back as he does so, teasingly tells her she won’t do better than him, and then kisses her passionately until her bad temper leaves her and she’s reminded all over again why he’s perfect for her. When he pulls away, she can’t help herself. “Love you, Mr Argent,” she says quietly, face pressed into his chest, but he hears.

“Back at you, Miss Martin.” She doesn’t know if the camera caught it, but she hopes not. 

This is just for them.

 

* * *

 

 

Jackson’s decidedly put out, and the next few days filming the finale are tense and awkward, but to his credit his uses his acting skills to make it look like he still thinks he has a chance, and Lydia thinks she does a fairly convincing job when she talks about his youthful good looks and his sweet nature, how she just finds him irresistible.

On the last day he corners her away from the camera, and gives her a hug. “I know I’m not going to win this, but I really want to stay friends afterwards? I like you a lot.”

Lydia hugs him back. “Friends is good,” she agrees.

They invite him to be one of the witnesses at their wedding, which they arrange as soon as physically possible. It’s the longest two weeks of Lydia’s life, because Chris _still_ insists on waiting. “Call me old fashioned, but I’d like our first time to be with you as my wife.” He looks so sincere when he says it, and Lydia knows this man has depths that go far beyond the ruthless, scheming exterior he presents to the world. She looks forwards to exploring them. 

But for now, she just sighs, and kisses him softly. “I suppose I can wait a little longer.”

“I promise it’ll be worth it, baby girl,” he purrs.

It is.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pssst. There might be a tiny follow up that's straight up medical kink filth, if you're interested.   
> Here.[Doctor, Doctor, give me the news](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16177946)

**Author's Note:**

> You can all blame MissMaladicta for the line about "Did you want to discuss calculus?"  
> I told her that Lydia was going to give Stiles a chance to 'impress' her, and her honest to god answer was "Oooh! Is he going to do maths?"  
> I love your idiot self, darling.


End file.
